


Unacceptable

by earthy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthy/pseuds/earthy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is unacceptable," says Sherlock.  Covered in bandages and all but shackled to a hospital bed, John rather agrees, but there's no need for Sherlock to get all melodramatic about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unacceptable

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no schmoop. This one's ~~proudly~~ not series 3-compliant. Spot the original canon references!
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** Not my characters/world except in the sense that I'm responsible for this current effort to give Mofftiss cavities and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle a reason to roll over in his grave.

"This is unacceptable," says Sherlock.

Covered in bandages and all but shackled to a hospital bed, John rather agrees, but there's no need for Sherlock to get all melodramatic about it.

"Look, they just want me to stay overnight for observation. Nothing serious. I'm sure you can handle one evening of having to fetch your own tea."

"Unacceptable," Sherlock repeats. The pout might be cute on a five-year-old, but it's a bit weird on a grown man...or would be on anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

John rolls his eyes. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will--"

"Mrs. Hudson wasn't just shot in the leg by a substandard conman."

John blinks. "Er. No, she wasn't."

"You were."

"Yes, I'd noticed, thanks."

"Unacceptable."

Sherlock looks him in the eye then for the first time since they got to hospital, and John half expects him to launch into a tirade about ex-soldiers who can't dodge a bullet, never mind that that would've defeated the entire point, which had been to get between Sherlock and said bullet. Dumb, maybe, but John had acted on instinct, which, as ever, amounted to Keep Sherlock's Horrible Life Choices From Getting Him Killed. This time it'd been surprising a counterfeiter in the midst of stashing his loot--so not a whole lot different than Sherlock's usual stellar choices, really.

But there's no tirade now, no snappy insult. Just an expression John can't quite read except to consider that it looks a bit like what would, on a normal person, indicate...fear? Worry? Sherlock's face doesn't register emotion like normal people.

"What?" he says defensively.

"You...." John can't figure out how to finish that sentence.

Sherlock makes a face. "Shut up."

"No, you--" John grabs Sherlock's wrist before he moves away, the only thing John can reach from his current awkward position. The movement tugs at the IV in John's arm, a tiny pinprick of pain, but he ignores it.

"You're upset that I was shot."

This is a statement of the obvious, so of course Sherlock says nothing.

"You--" This shouldn't be funny, but John can feel a crazy laugh rising in his throat. "You _jumped off a building_ , you pretended to be dead for more than a year, and _you're_ upset that _I_ got shot. Not even shot. Grazed."

"Yes." Sherlock narrows his eyes, apparently oblivious to the fact that he's just admitted to having an emotion. "I fail to see the humor in this."

John closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath, then opens them and says, "Sherlock. Do you know _why_ I got shot?"

"Because you're an idiot."

There it is.

"And Evans was lucky."

Well. Not quite the insult it could've been. Sherlock must really be upset.

"I got shot," John says, "because I was trying to protect you."

Sherlock's frown deepens. "You know that's not necessary."

Now John does have to laugh, short and sharp. "Isn't it? This from the man who nearly swallowed poison not forty-eight hours after I met him--"

"It wasn't the bad pill, I'd deduced correctly--"

"Who faked his own death rather than ask for help--"

"I _did_ ask for help, just not from you."

The room is suddenly very quiet.

"Oh," says Sherlock after a moment. "You think because I didn't tell you then--"

"I don't know." John sighs. "We can't all be super geniuses. I don't know what you're thinking half the time--more than half, if I'm honest. You could be planning to run out into oncoming traffic for all I know--don't start, I know you've done it, I was _there_ \--and I--well. I'm not going to stand by and let you get yourself killed. Again."

Sherlock is busy picking at the hospital bed duvet, not looking at him, which for some reason is enough for John to think that continuing is a good idea. "So I'm going to do whatever needs doing to keep that from happening. And you don't get to tell me whether or not that's acceptable."

John can practically see the fear/confusion/frustration loop playing itself out in that ridiculous brain.

"You were...angry when I came back," Sherlock says at last.

"Yes."

"You're still angry."

John smiles thinly. "Yeah, a bit."

"But you...." Sherlock gestures to the hospital bed, John's worse-for-wear state.

"Yeah," John says. "And I would again. Just so we're clear."

Sherlock sneaks a quick look at him, then away, out the window, his eyes slightly unfocused. Not quite the Mind Palace, but not all here, either. His hands are clenched in his lap.

A long pause. Then: "I accounted for thirteen contingencies--"

John pinches the bridge of his nose. "Not really in the mood to hear about how clever you are right now, Sherlock--"

"Thirteen, John. And I didn't follow any of them through to determine how I would... _feel_ "--he grimaces--"knowing you were in danger, and I couldn't...that I would stop him, but it would mean--"

He stops, locks gazes with John, and something in John's stomach does a flip. "Fifteen months is a long time, John," he says.

John is suddenly aware that it's becoming difficult to breathe, and he still has a hand on Sherlock's wrist. He thinks vaguely that he should move it, but then Sherlock will move away, and for all that John's still a bit annoyed, that would be...a bit not good.

Because he's much cleverer than certain consulting detectives give him credit for, he also notices that said consulting detective is shifting to (accidentally? on purpose?) brush his thumb against John's palm, and in a moment it'll be no stretch of the imagination to say they're holding hands, and is holding hands something you do with your completely insane, only-recently-not-dead flatmate, for whom you just took a bullet to the thigh because he was too much of an idiot to get out of the way?

"You know why I did it," Sherlock says quietly. His hand is warm in John's, and he's leaning forward a bit into John's personal space, which ought to be weird, but somehow isn't.

"You know why I did this," John counters. With Sherlock this close, John figures he should move his injured leg out of the way, but he's not feeling any pain right now, especially when Sherlock smiles at him.

"You realize there's something wrong with you," Sherlock says.

John considers this while he reaches out and runs his free hand through Sherlock's hair. "Nothing that's not already wrong with you."

Sherlock huffs. "I'm never wrong."

"Wrong."

Sherlock seems too busy leaning almost imperceptibly into John's touch to offer the appropriate curt response, which just goes to show that this whole thing must be some weird, drug-fueled hallucination John's having, but _God_ , he's just relieved that Sherlock is alive despite his near-constant attempts to make it otherwise, and fifteen months really is a long time to be without your whatever-Sherlock-is, pretending to be normal and trying to get on with life and hating every moment of it--

And John is kissing him--when did _that_ happen?--and Sherlock has gone completely still--

John breaks away sharply, as best he's able to, given that he's propped up on a hospital bed with Sherlock nearly in his lap. He hadn't been thinking--this is Sherlock, and this isn't something they do, and he should say something, probably, something reassuring and normal so they can laugh it off--

"God, sorry, I--"

Okay, not that--

Sherlock is inches from his face, and it's all John can do to look him in the eyes rather than the mouth, especially when Sherlock is licking his lips experimentally and leaning in and--

Kissing John again.

Right. Well. Okay. Apparently this _is_ something they do. At least for the moment, which is a rather nice moment, with Sherlock somehow avoiding John's injured leg but still managing to crowd him back into the scratchy hospital pillows, cupping his cheek with surprising gentleness despite the inexpert, increasingly desperate way he's exploring John's mouth, and if it weren't for that incessant beeping--

"Sh'lock--mmm--Sherlock, we'll have the nurse in here in a minute--"

"Don't care," Sherlock mumbles, moving to John's neck, which is extremely distracting, especially as he sounds breathless.

John's not quite so far gone that he doesn't notice Sherlock's hand inching toward the heart rate monitor as if to remove it from John's finger. John bats it away, grinning like an idiot. "I think they'd notice if I suddenly flatline."

Sherlock straightens up a bit to glare at him, but the effect is entirely ruined by the flush across his cheeks. "You should come home at once," he says firmly. "Staying the night in the hospital is--"

"Unacceptable, yeah." John isn't sure what's causing the not entirely unpleasant clench in his chest--hearing Sherlock call Baker Street "home," or the insistence that they return there immediately.

"The doctors are unlikely to listen to reason," Sherlock continues, still absently stroking John's hand. "Desperate times...."

He reaches into his jacket pocket with his free hand--even now he refuses to let go of John's--produces his phone, and makes a call.

"Mycroft. It's urgent. Get your people to unarrest John at once. What? No, not the police station, the hospital, as you well know."

John snorts, squeezes Sherlock's hand, and decides maybe it's not so unacceptable an evening after all.


End file.
